Ever since I can remember, I’ve experienced anxiety and depression and symptoms of OCD. However for years, I didn’t tell a single soul because I didn’t have the vocabulary for it. I was also incredibly scared and embarrassed by the emotions and feelings I was experiencing. I mean, how could I tell my mom that I have this irrational fear of refrigerators and every time I think of one I start panicking? Or when I sit in a movie theater or in a classroom or wherever really, I start to sweat and I can’t breathe and I panic for minutes or even hours. How as a seemingly normal little girl could I talk to my parents about this?

Honestly, I thought it was natural. I thought every little kid had panic attacks over the littlest things, or had to wash their hands several times just to feel okay or had to get up out of bed five different times just to make sure all of the doors are properly locked and shut or couldn’t hold a pencil in class because of germs. I truly thought I was ok. As I got older the symptoms got worse and I became more and more aware of them, and then I started to feel more and more alone. There were days in high school where I felt so lost and depressed that I just wanted to scream in the hallways to be noticed.

I changed from an outgoing daughter and friend, to someone who spent most of their time in their room alone. I went through a period of downward emotional spirals and totally lost myself in the process. High school was very rough for me. I was stuck in a cycle of mental illness and didn’t know how to get out. When I came to college, I thought I could have a fresh start. And I did. After a rough beginning, I finally sought help at the counseling center. I walked by the door to the counseling center a million times before I got up the courage to walk myself up there and make an appointment, but it was the best thing I ever could have done. I was diagnosed with anxiety, depression, and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. At first, I was freaked out because I thought that this diagnosis would make me seem “crazy”. But after many hours of work and counseling I discovered that this was the best thing that could have happened to me. I wasn’t alone anymore. I finally had a name to what I’ve been experiencing my whole life. I took a look back at everything I had gone through and it made so much sense. I wasn’t crazy, I was just anxious. The diagnosis also let me separate myself from my mental illness. I discovered that if I was having anxious or obsessive thoughts, they weren’t a reflection of me; it was just the OCD talking. This gave me so much strength to shut off the voices in my head. I can now say that I am not my anxiety, or my depression or my OCD, I am me. I am not defined by my mental illness, nor will I ever be. Through much work and introspection, I am the healthiest and happiest I have ever been, and I have my diagnosis to thank for that.

So for those of you out there who might be struggling with mental illness, aware or not, you are not alone. I promise there are other people out there experiencing the same things. And it can and will get better. It takes time and mental effort but it is possible to learn to love yourself and be at ease with your mental illness. So thank you to the doctors who finally put a name to my feelings, because now I feel powerful. I have the power to say, I am not my mental illness; I am me, and I am so much more than that.